Thirty Minutes
by Lelare-i-tharas
Summary: So we all know the story of the Silmarils, otherwise we wouldn't be here. But everyone knows there's always more than one way events can turn out, an infinite number of possibilities which exist in an infinite number of dimensions.  This is one such story
1. The Land of Dreams

**A/N: **I basically got the idea from this story from an idea presented in a book written by my eighth grade English teacher, Or Not…? The premise was that the aspiring writers in the story were to take an idea and develop it into a story, then they were to go back and change the timing on one seemingly trivial detail, thus changing the outcome of the entire story. I liked the idea so much I decided to try writing something similar for myself. Thus this story is a **completely reworked** version of J.R.R. Tolkien's _Silmarillion_, keeping the same characters (with a few additions) and the same beginning. I recommend having read and knowing the canon well before attempting to make sense of this story, as there are many allusions to events detailed in the canon, but not fully explained here. That being said, I hope you enjoy my little project.

Thirty Minutes

Lëlarë i-tharas

Out of sight; out of mind.

Out of time to decide:

Do we run?

Should I hide

For the rest of my life?

Can we fly?

Do I stay?

We could lose;

We could fail

In the moment it takes

To make plans

Or mistakes.

Thirty minutes: a blink of an eye;

Thirty minutes to alter our lives;

Thirty minutes to make up my mind;

Thirty minutes to finally decide;

Thirty minutes to whisper your name;

Thirty minutes to shoulder the blame;

Thirty minutes of bliss; thirty lies;

Thirty minutes to finally

Carousels in the sky

That we shape with our eyes.

Under shade: silhouettes

Casting shade,

Crying rain.

Can we fly?

Do I stay?

We could lose;

We could fail.

Either way options change,

Chances fade,

Trains

Thirty minutes: a blink of an eye;

Thirty minutes to alter our lives;

Thirty minutes to make up my mind;

Thirty minutes to finally decide;

Thirty minutes to whisper your name;

Thirty minutes to shoulder the blame;

Thirty minutes of bliss; thirty lies;

Thirty minutes to finally decide.

—"Thirty Minutes" t.a.T.u.


	2. Never Been Free

**NEVER BEEN FREE**

_"Know this, Anylindë: the path you have chosen can only lead to tragedy. Why do you persist in following this…Noldo murderer to a future of no hope?"_

_ "Because. Because death lies ahead for all of us, ultimately. And if the Noldor fail? Whose swords will then hold back the gathering darkness? Eldamar is no longer the shelter it once was. Tirion is empty and dead. How much longer can Alqualondë exist in such a world?"_

_ "And were it not for the actions of the damnéd Noldor, Tirion would remain and Alqualondë would yet be more than ruins of her former glory. Or have you already forgotten the past, thankless fosterling that you are?"_

_ "Ada…"_

_ Her eyes searched his, seeking solace where there was none to be had. Only cold emptiness. The man who had raised her after her parents were lost to the snares of the Hunter was gone, leaving behind this stranger._

_ "Anylindë… I would not have you throw away your life so rashly… for nothing."_

_ "There is nothing for me here. Not now that I have seen what could be. Alqualondë is silent… always so silent. My heart shall never rest in the haven of the swans again."_

_ "If you forsake the Swan Haven, then you can no longer call yourself Teleri. You are nothing more than an exile… same as the Noldor to whom you so obviously belong…"_

And thus, she came under the shadow of our doom, casting aside everything she had ever held dear to follow a doomed prince into exile, the first fruit of the Kinslaying. And in that action, I have taken my worst wound, and my greatest joy. For I alone of my brothers truly knew what it meant to be happy in the empty expanses of Beleriand; for all my sufferings I always had that one point of light, however faint, to which to cling…

Yet for my happiness, she surrendered her innocence. No longer was she the carefree girl dancing in the streets of Alqualondë, or stealing Macalaurë's harp and drawing from it such songs as to make the sea itself listen. The silent expanses of Beleriand have stolen her song as surely as would have the harbors of Eressëa.

And I hold myself to blame.

Is this what Morgoth intended when he hung me here—that I should listen and think, and in the void of soundless drone come at last to know the truth I've resisted for so long? For if so, then he has succeeded. I no longer desire life. Not for myself, at least. I know I am doomed; would that she was not.

Funny—how the mind works, seeing only the most convenient possibility, never seeking the truth beyond that which it already desires to believe. Never.

Never.

I pushed my thoughts away from that idea, one that I had already pursued many times during the long nights spent lying awake, contemplating the stars and whatever secrets may yet lay beyond them in the endless void of the heavens. Did the power that made them know how they had turned to my torment? Did she even care?

Was it too much to hope that her heart could ever be moved to pity for those who had, in their folly, forsaken her and everything she stood for?

Findecáno said once that it was always good to have hope, even when reality knows there can be only one destiny. How truly he spoke. I would long since have fallen into madness here, were it not for the memory of him, though no doubt he no longer cares for the friendship we once had. The wounds of Losgar will no doubt run too deep to be so easily healed. No, I am alone, isolated from all others by my actions and the actions of my brethren. The imagination always draws everything in its own unique way, rarely—if ever—holding true to reality. Depressing, really, that even within the shadows of one's own mind, one could never be certain of the truth. Living a lie.

The doom of humanity.

And wouldn't that be a treacherous path to walk, deceiving myself into the traps of self-pity? We are all alone, in our own ways—Findecáno in the burden of betrayal as he dares the biting ice of the Helcaraxë; me in the torment I have since endured, torment that mayhap he could have prevented. He always was wiser than I. But we each have our own penance to pay, a penance brought upon us by circumstances set in motion long ere we were ever born.

And this endless battle—

Is this a part of that penance as well?

How fitting, then, that we should rush towards Destiny's tryst with the ability still to hope and dream, even when circumstances have already torn those futures away from us. Fate has darkened out path, plunging us into the oblivion of the unknown, blissfully ignorant of what that would truly mean. Hoping. Dreaming.

And still in some portion believing that such hopes and dreams could hold the potential of possibility. Seeking solace where there is none to be had.

Is this what Naríel felt when she left Alqualondë and set sail after us, knowing she much now choose and by her choice set the fate of many into motion? Is this what it is to accept one's destiny, this knowledge that no matter what happens next, one's own part in the story is already drawing to a close?

The air about me seemed to grow heavy with some dread foreboding, a vague sense of impending doom drawing ever nearer. Nearer. Echoing in the silence of my world. And there is another quirk of nature—that silence which always precedes the coming of doom. Do others experience that same phenomenon or are they as of yet still free, if freedom it can truly be called? For what, after all, is freedom? The ability to do as one desires, to shape one's own destiny?

No one has ever truly been free. We have lived our whole lives bound, slaves to our constant awareness of our own trivial insignificance. We have spent our whole lives preparing for this day, waiting. Always waiting. Always enduring.

Always.

After all, what choice do we have? To despair is to admit defeat and pass knowingly into the everlasting darkness with all that remains of our House. Already we stand halfway on that path; how easy it would be to simply yield, to let our feet carry us away to the doom we chose call those long years ago in Tirion, there to be never more than a memory. Why should we not surrender the fight to another, to those with hope for victory?

For even I can no longer hope for victory. Not for myself, nor for those whom I have held dear—I don't suppose I shall ever see them again. No—here I shall stay even unto the utmost ending of days, for I shall never give Morgoth the satisfaction of seeing me cowed, broken at last beyond all hope of redemption. If death is to be my fate, then I shall at least find a death as to life from my soul the burden of shame it now carries. Shame for the rape of Alqualondë, for the betrayal of Findecáno. Shame for the curse which I have caused to fall upon Anylindë Naríel.

I cannot change the past. I know that now. But if there's any mercy left in this world for a curséd prince who has already lost everything, let them at least find some easier ending. Let them not come to grief, to invite Death's embrace prematurely when the long years of Life still stretch on before their feet. Let them see again the light of joy, undimmed, before the utter destruction of the world.

If at least I have that to hope, then mayhap I can die content…

The darkness does not seem so chill now, wrapping itself endlessly around me. I have welcomed it into my soul and we are one. I am Nelyafinwë, crown prince—now High King—of the Noldor in Beleriand. Ne'er before has that knowledge weighed so heavily upon me. So here I remain, chained against the cold face of Thangorodrim, impotent in fear, impotent in self-loathing.

Impotent in penance.


End file.
